


catch this drift

by bitchbutter



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Breaking Up & Making Up, Episode: s01e10 Points, Hand Jobs, Lieb: I have never had An Emotion ever, Light Angst, M/M, oh the yearning, web goes to Harvard but can't swim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:42:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28306224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bitchbutter/pseuds/bitchbutter
Summary: Joe breaks things off with Web in Austria.Of course, nothing with them is ever that simple.
Relationships: Joseph Liebgott/David Kenyon Webster
Comments: 6
Kudos: 39





	catch this drift

**Author's Note:**

> greetings babes-
> 
> i've been living in a _Band of Brothers_ hellscape almost the entirety of the Great Quar of 2020, and working on this story and its companions for almost that long, too. right now it's the first of a series that has chunks written all across the board, and i hope you'll tune back in for those installments as well.
> 
> helpful listening (and a Very webgott song): _All I Really Want_ by Alanis Morisette

It wasn’t long before the ticking drove him out of the room.

Out of the room, out of the hotel, into the street.

Maybe it was the booze thrumming through the empty spaces he’d fought to create in his head, maybe it was the burn of his eyes that wouldn’t stay closed no matter how long he lay there in the dark trying to fall asleep, but mostly Joe thinks it’s the ticking. 

Somewhere in the suite where he, Skinny, Babe, and Chuck had crashed earlier in the evening a clock was ticking itself into oblivion as strong and as loud as anything, though the other three had seemed able to cancel the sound out enough to pass out around 2a.m. Again, that might also be the fault of the booze.

Not Joe. Definitely not. 

He had lain there and listened to the steady _tick, tock, tick, tock_ hoping for either the clock to give out or for his mind to give out, he didn’t particularly care which by the time sleep evaded him for close to an hour. Occasionally the sound would be cushioned against the noise of a truck rumbling past, its headlights whirling across the ceiling before disappearing along with the sound, leaving him and the ticking alone together. Babe’s usual snores weren’t even permeating the atmosphere of the room to give him something to cling onto aside from the fucking ticking.

Not that he’d ever admit it to anyone, but sometimes the dark was a little too much for him to bear, and the presence of the ticking, like the pulse of some unknown creature in the room waiting under the bed or in the closet, was exacerbating that unspoken fear.

But that wasn’t true. He _had_ spoken it to someone. 

Not that he wanted to think about Web right now. 

Instead he stumbled through the dark until he launched himself out into the relative light of the hallway, the staircase, and the less oppressive darkness of the street below. The amount of times his shoulders knocked against the wall and his knees threatened to go out from under him maybe should have been an indication that he was too drunk to be wandering around by himself, but he craved the natural silence of the street to calm his nerves.

He managed to make it all the way across the street, landing heavily against the barrier looking out over a small wooded enclave. Somewhere in the dark beyond he could hear the sound of the lake, of waves hitting the shore with gentle force. 

Fumbling through his pockets for his smokes, he sucked in a deep breath to try and sober up, lamenting the self of a few hours prior that had decided hitting the bottle with that much gusto was the only acceptable way for the night to go. “Stupid…” he muttered to himself before placing a cigarette between his lips.

“Glad I’m not the only one who thinks so.”

Whipping his head around to the darkened street behind him, cigarette almost flying out of his mouth, Joe nearly turned tail and went right back inside to face the ticking at the sight of Web, all nonchalance, crossing the street to stand beside him.

“Fuck,” he hissed, turning back to the darkness and sucking down a hefty drag of smoke.

If Web picks up on his irritated rumbling he doesn’t let on, instead settling beside Joe quietly and joining him in looking out over the unknown, the picture of tranquility beside Joe’s clear agitation. When the silence continues between them it’s almost like being back in the room he just left, listening to some unknown force somewhere next to him ticking along towards an unclear destination, mysterious intent. But Web isn’t nearly as innocuous as a clock. Not nearly as harmless.

“Couldn’t sleep?” the other man finally asks, though he keeps his gaze focused forward. 

Exhaling a stream of smoke and immediately gulping down another, Joe scowls at Web as much as he can without actually turning his head. “Something like that.”

Web nodded, considering. “Something like that.”

Rolling his eyes, Joe looked askance at the other man. “What the fuck are you doing out here, then, Webster?”

Finally Web looks back towards him, blue eyes heavy lidded and critical as they latch on to Joe’s own dark eyes. “Did you think you were being quiet? I thought someone was falling down the goddamn stairs.”

“Well,” Joe said, letting his smoke out through his nose forcefully. “I didn’t fall down the stairs. Sorry to disappoint. You can go.”

Sighing, Web turned his body fully to face Joe. “Lieb, I don’t know what you…” he started, before stopping himself on a sharp inhale. “I don’t know what you expected me to do.”

Snickering, Joe shook his head bitterly. “I don’t know what I expected you to do either, Web, so we don’t need to talk about it.”

“Yes, we do,” the other man insisted, his voice still hushed against the quiet of the empty street. “Joe, I don’t understand.”

And that was the prevailing issue with him and Web. Web never understands why Joe is upset, and Joe sure as shit never understands when Web is upset. For as much time as they’ve been shoved together the last couple of years he still can’t breach that territory, can’t gain any ground with Web without feeling like he’s losing some of his own and immediately turning to seize it back. Ever since Haguenau he’s just been running himself in circles with this whatever-the-fuck-it-is with Web, and no amount of fondling in barns is making up for this bereft feeling that’s quickly sucking up all the territory he was pushing the other man away from. If there was anything left inside him that remained, anything left for Web to reach, it was lost on that hill with the Kommandant. 

“Well that breaks my heart, I’m sorry you don’t understand,” Joe spat. “Maybe you should take a class on using your head for something other than decoration back at Harvard.”

Web’s open face hardened immediately at that, eyes narrowing into pools of quickly freezing ice. “I guess I’m just saying I don’t know why you’re angry at me.”

Joe scoffed. “You think this is about you?”

“Isn’t it?” Web challenged.

“Not even a little bit, Web.”

Web’s mouth popped open to exhale a disbelieving puff of air, the corners of his plump lips fighting against turning up in nonplussed frustration. “Then why are you taking it out on me?” he hissed. 

“I’m sorry, have I held a gun to your head recently?” Joe whispered harshly, his own body now turning fully, chest practically brushing Web’s. “You been running any camps I don’t know about?”

Flushing along his cheeks, Web still managed to level him with an absolutely withering stare. _“No.”_

He almost wanted to step back, collect himself before going on. Fighting with Web wasn’t like fighting with anybody else, the rules didn’t apply like they did to any normal exchange of insults or fists. Fighting, for them, mind as well be the prelude to an embrace (albeit a tight one, a rough one), an insult landing right in the center of where a kiss could be pressed. On any other night the look in Web’s eyes might be exciting, might lead him to take the other man under the jaw, push his head up so that he could press his face into his neck and let hot breath penetrate their irritation with desire. 

But this is a different kind of fight altogether. The anger is ghosting far too close to the center of himself, a place nobody has seen in years, and it has the same effect as knocking your elbow against a doorframe: pain, shame, anger, run. 

So he allowed himself one more lungful of smoke, before stubbing out his cigarette and facing Web with a stare of his own. “Alright, then tell me exactly how I’ve been taking any of this shit out on you, Web.”

Web’s face pushed closer to his by a fraction, just enough to send Joe’s back. “Don’t be fucking obtuse, Joe, you think I think it’s just a coincidence that you haven’t looked at me in three days?”

Joe rose back up to him, an angry flush spreading down his neck and pooling along his collarbone. “I don’t pretend to have any idea what’s going on in your head,” he seethed into the other man’s face. “I wish you wouldn’t pretend to understand what’s going on in mine.”

Strangely Web stayed back at that, brow furrowing. “That’s not what I’m doing, Joe, I just…” he fought, mouth opening and closing a few times before he gave his head a clearing shake. “You can’t just…”

Shrugging his shoulders up in agitation, Joe had to purposefully keep his hands down at his sides and not take Web by the collar and shake him. “What?”

“You can’t just erase me.” Web settled finally, eyes as bright and almost desperate as they ever were when they would find a dark corner to hide in for a while. 

“That so? I’m not sure you’re right,” Joe rasped snidely, aware that though his face was still flushing red his mouth was likely turning up in the imitation of a sneer. “I got awful good at it in Bastogne, I’m sure I could do it again.” 

Web’s mouth closed up into an infuriating pout, eyes widening fractionally before blinking themselves down to focus on the ground. “You know that’s not true, you’re just saying that to hurt my feelings,” he said softly. “And I resent it, Joe.”

And maybe it was true. Maybe more than just maybe, but what business was it of Web’s? An ache was slowly but surely building up from the top of his head down his forehead, and it was only adding fuel to the fire inside him that wanted nothing more than to burn the edges of Webster’s beautiful, hurt face. “Well, now you know how I fucking felt bringing you with me up there,” he said lowly, taking another step forward and bumping Web’s chest wih his own. “You think I liked how that felt?”

Swallowing heavily, Web held his ground. “I think you liked what you did, that’s the part that I take issue with.”

Joe nodded, mouth twisted. “I did like it. I liked doing it, I’d do it again.”

“That’s…” Web started, before seeming to think better of it and shutting his mouth up tight for a moment. Taking in a somewhat shaky breath, he raised one hand to rest lightly against Joe’s heated collar. “The ethics of what you did are not what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“It’s what I want to talk to you about,” Joe hissed, batting the offending hand away. “So tough shit.”

“Joe, that man has nothing to do with you and me, and all of a sudden you’ve found a way to make it about everything you don’t like about me!” Web whispered rapidly, both hands now coming up to claw futilely at the air between them, fighting between reaching out for the other man or staying down.

“He has everything to do with you and me, Web. You saw what I saw, you heard what I heard,” Joe shot back, the angry twist of his mouth successfully unwinding itself into something far too vulnerable for his liking. “I opened up to you and you judged me, you _fucking hypocrite._ ”

Web’s mind makes itself up at that, hands finding Joe’s face immediately, cupping his pale cheeks as he stepped closer again. “I never judged your feelings, Joe, I never did,” he whispered vehemently, body moving alongside Joe’s as the other man attempted to shake his grasp. “You can believe anything else you want, but I never judged you for that.”

Joe scoffed. “Yeah, we just arrive at different conclusions, huh?” he taunted, grabbing at Web’s wrists and pulling his hands from his face. “Real scholar.”

“Stop- ” Web started, hastily moving to take hold of Joe’s hand when he attempted to force him away. “Stop making this about me,” he said heatedly, blue eyes regaining some of his initial anger. “You did it!”

“And you stood by and did nothing!” Joe burst, voice reaching his normal volume but serving to shatter the faux silence of the street.

Web backed away at the exclamation, hands still partially raised as though expecting Joe to charge at him. He glanced aside to the block of buildings across the street, gauging if they had been heard, if anyone might come to investigate the sound. When he deemed them safe, he brought his gaze back to Joe’s, and this look, this forlornness, is so unlike any part of Web he’d ever seen that he was struck by the thought that the Web he thought he knew might not in fact be the Web that was standing before him. This Web might be something altogether different. But for better or for worse, he couldn't say.

“What did you want me to do?” Web whispered, breath pushing out of him helplessly. “You want me to just roll over and go along with everything you do, no questions asked? You want me to be someone I’m not?” 

Joe sucked in a deep breath, headache radiating all the way down his body and burning straight through his chest. He shook his head. “...I wanted you to be who I thought you were,” he finally murmured.

For a few moments Web doesn’t even blink, doesn’t turn, doesn’t seem to breathe. His face seems to pale, before a deep blush rushes over his cheeks. “Well…” he begins, but his voice cracks, and he swallows heavily against it. “I’m not, I suppose.” 

“I see that now.”

Web’s flinch shudders in the air between them, Joe swears it grazes past him as real as a bullet. This is where anybody else might take mercy on Web, let it stand as it is and call it a night and not let him just stand there wriggling like a worm on a hook. But he wouldn’t be able to stand that, not when he hasn’t afforded anyone else the same courtesy. Web isn’t that special. No matter what he’s said to him in the past. 

“Maybe you don’t…” Web started, voice wobbling in a way that made Joe immediately avert his eyes. “Maybe you don’t know me the way you thought you did, but…” he paused to form the next thought, voice stronger even as his eyes retained that sharp fear. “I’m still here, in case you did want to? If you wanted to move on?”

And some part of him, some unknowable part of him, did want to. Wanted to fall back into their past, let the Web he thought he knew draw him into their dark corners and kiss him stupid. That part of him mind as well still be wandering the streets of Frisco for how far away he felt. 

“No. I don’t think so, Web,” he said solidly, carefully to keep his voice low and unaffected. 

Web blinked, his mouth twitching slightly into a distressed turn. “What do you mean?”

Shaking his head Joe took a step back, looking for some clarity in proximity, one hand coming up to swipe his hair away from his flushed face. “I don’t know, I look at you and I feel…”

_Don’t say it_ , he thinks.

He hears the step Web takes towards him, and turns his body towards the other side of the street, seeking some kind, any kind, of protection from the radiating pain in his head and the desperation thrumming from the other man.

“What?” Web pushes.

“I just can’t,” Joe bit out, shooting a glare back over his shoulder at Web’s pathetically open face. “It’s over, it has to be.”

Somehow Web’s gape gets that much wider, that much more disbelieving. “So...really? That’s it?” the turn of Web’s mouth is veering headlong from disappointment to anger, and good, Joe can deal with that. “I don’t get a say in this?”

“You might have had a say in where this was heading somewhere on that hill,” Joe sneered, ignoring the way that his chest was beginning to burn worse than his head. “But you don’t anymore.”

Web shook his head. “No,” he said quietly, eyes glancing around the street before finding the strength to meet Joe’s once more. “No, you don’t get to just write me off this way, Joe, you can’t.” 

Joe fought the urge to groan in frustration, choosing instead to turn again to begin crossing the street. “Yeah, I can.”

“No, you can’t!” Web hissed, following the other man into the street to take his shoulder and push him back into the confrontation. “There’s a reason you took me up there with you,” he rasped, eyes bright with anguish. “You took me up there, _you_ did, you trusted me!” 

“Yeah, exactly,” Joe spat, finally giving into the urge to seize Web by the collar and pulling their faces near enough to growl. “That’s shot to hell now. And I didn’t do that, _you_ did that!”

Without further preamble Joe pushed Web away, back towards the sidewalk, not even relishing the way Web nearly loses his footing. Yanking his eyes from the other man, righting himself quickly, he turns again. Unfortunately, being literally tossed aside hasn’t made Web any slower to react, and Joe finds his wrist suddenly caught again in Web’s frantic grip. 

“Joe, you can’t…” he choked out, the pitch of his voice going just high enough to break out of the whisper he’d maintained. Joe once again found his cheek cupped in Web’s pale hand, the other still holding fast to his wrist as he was forced once again to meet Web’s eyes and try not to dissolve into the air around them. Web’s eyes were large and bright, and they made the flush spreading over Joe’s collarbone itch in discomfort, but he couldn’t look away. Couldn’t force his body to move into the future without -

“I don’t...Joe, please…” Web whispered, his thumb brushing under Joe’s eye, which closed against the contact. “You’re my best friend.”

Pulling in a deep breath, Joe opened his dark eyes once more, letting the flame of his anger wash back over him to clear the way.

“Yeah? Well, _you_ aren’t _my_ best friend,” he whispered coldly into Web’s shell shocked face. “And know something else?” he hissed, moving his face infinitesimally closer to Web’s. “We could die in the same bed and I would never forgive you for this, Web. _Wir sind fertig_.”

Web’s face was pale and frozen. “Joe -” 

In one moment he was free from whatever power Web had over him, leaving the other man rooted to the spot in the street, hand still hovering where it had held Joe’s face. Shaking his head, Joe turned his back.

“I’m going to bed,” he tossed quietly over his shoulder, sparing no glance behind him. “Don’t fucking talk to me.”

If there was a reply he didn’t hear it. If Web stood in that exact spot, motionless and silent, until the sun came up he didn’t know. 

Instead he tripped his way back up the stairs to his room, steps somehow still clumsy even with the somber turn of his mood. He had the good sense to at least try and close the door quietly, even if that effort went out the window the second he tried to cross back to the bed and tripped over Babe’s foot from where he’d sprawled next to the couch.

“Whassat?” the redhead mumbled sleepily, voice high and wheezy.

“Sorry, Babe,” he muttered. “Go back to sleep.”

“That you, Joe?” 

“Yeah.”

“Y’alright?”

“No.”

“Huh?”

“I’m fine, Babe, go to sleep.”

This time as he laid in bed he clung helplessly to the monotony of the clock, if only to keep himself from replaying Web’s voice in his head, letting it tick him down into the dark. 

* * *

Unfortunately, just telling Web to leave him alone did not necessarily mean he wasn’t forced to endure Web looking at him day after goddamn day. 

It was like a sunburn, all of a sudden the skin on the back of his neck would tighten up and start to sting as he walked through a room, or across the street, or put a cigarette between his lips, and he’d know Web was watching him. And he had nobody to blame but himself; he’d developed that skill in Holland when Web’s looks started off inscrutable and quickly melted into want. It became a helpful talent in their time together. Web wants, Joe knows, the end.

But he doesn’t want the gift anymore, it’s physically making his skin itch to feel Web look at him. 

At this point he’d rather feel numb than feel _that_. 

They’re in the middle of another rousing film preparing them for what promises to be the absolute slaughterhouse awaiting Easy in Japan when he feels it again: heat. Fighting the urge to huff out a frustrated breath, he turns his head just the slightest bit, and it’s enough to catch the edge of Web’s look. 

Shameless is what it is, the way Web is openly staring at him, thumb gently caressing the corner of his bottom lip. And Joe shouldn’t even indulge him by acknowledging the look at all, but he can’t help but jerk his head towards the screen with an annoyed twitch. _Watch the screen, not me,_ he wants to hiss under the noise of the film. After all, Joe isn’t even the one that’s going to have to make the jump. 

Web oughta be smarter. 

The other look he should be paying attention to is the one Skinny is levelling at him as Joe glares over both of their shoulders at Web. He meets the other man's critical gaze with what he hopes is indifference, and hastily turns his head over his other shoulder as well to make it look like he was just stretching. Unfortunately Skinny looks just as unimpressed when he looks back as he did before. 

Joe licks his lips, shooting one last glance past Skinny’s shoulder at Web, who has moved his eyes away from Joe, but not where they should be on the screen, but down on the floor. “Got a light?” he whispers.

Skinny rolls his eyes, pulling his lighter from his pocket as Joe places a cigarette between his lips. “Yeah, yeah,” he replied, lighting the tip. 

The lights snapped on as the screen went dark on its miserable images, and he pushed himself up out of the room perhaps a little faster than was necessary. Shouldering his way past a few of the guys cluttering up the doorway, he launched himself down the stairs to set up shop by the corner of the building.

He only stood there, smoking silently but furiously, for a few moments before Skinny settled next to him with his typical quiet intention. When the other man didn’t move to light his own cigarette, choosing to stand beside him with raised brows and a somewhat expectant look on his face he knew he was in for something.

“Yeah?” he asked impatiently, sucking down another lungful of smoke.

“You got anything you want to talk about?” Skinny retorted, voice as blank and open as his face.

Joe scoffed. “What the fuck would I have to talk about?”

“You tell me.”

“For Christ’s sake,” Joe muttered, fighting not to roll his eyes. “What are you trying to say? Save us both the fucking effort.”

Skinny shifted just a half step closer to him, but it was close enough that he came to the screeching realization that whatever was bothering Skinny was something he didn’t want anyone else to hear. “Are things not right with you and Web?”

He had to consciously keep himself from reacting, doing his best to keep his blood under control so his fucking face and neck didn’t start breaking out in hives. Averting his eyes from Skinny’s dreadful patient ones, he found himself glancing over the other man’s shoulder and catching sight of Web standing near the door. Near the door is too generous, the fucker mind as well be in the road as he stands there like an idiot furiously scribbling something in his damn notebook.

If he still bothered to think about Web he’d think about how easy it would be to snatch his book and lead him on a half-hearted chase, laugh a bit at the look on his face before kissing it off him. 

Thankfully he didn’t think about Web anymore. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Skinny,” he attempted to deflect, bringing his smoke back to his lips, scowling at the light tremble in his fingers.

The other man just shook his head softly, smiling at some joke only he heard. “Right, Joe,” he appeased, before tapping Joe’s shoulder momentarily. “Let me know if you ever want to talk, huh?”

“I need to talk to you like I need to talk to -” Joe cut himself off at the realization that Skinny was already half a block away and clearly not listening to him. “...Fuck.”

He couldn’t help himself, and stole a glance back to where Web had been standing. He’s still there, and this time he’s looking right back at Joe, who blanches at the connection of their eyes but holds it stalwartly. Web looks at him with a bare-faced combination of regret and want, before closing his mouth resolutely and turning away, setting off down the other side of the street.

Well, that doesn’t feel good at all. Joe scowls, flicking what remains of his smoke down to the street and grinding it under the heel of his boot. “Fuck.”

* * *

Maybe he _is_ edgy, so the fuck what? Nobody’s business. Nobody’s business, so the looks Skinny keeps shooting him have no fucking place in his life right now. And neither, for that matter, do any of the other weird looks the guys have been shooting him the last few days as if they have any idea what the fuck is going on in his head.

And doesn’t he just like _that_ , the idea that not only did every guy in his platoon know about him and Web but the idea that maybe they all knew even before then. Which is ridiculous, unwarranted, makes no sense, and still manages to make his hands run cold and his blood race simultaneously.

It also serves to effectively banish him from the relatively relaxed nights the guys have been enjoying since they got to Austria, self-imposed though it may be. He doesn’t like it anymore than he’s liked anything else that’s been happening to him in Austria while everybody else seems to be having a great time, but he’d rather face his anger alone than face any of the strange, inscrutable looks he’s been subjected to.

Fuck it.

_Fuck it all_ , he thinks as he finally pushes the door to his shared room open as the sun is finally going down. He’s gonna shut the door and let it all happen without him, better that way. Better off for everyone.

And anyway, he swiped the gin Babe had been stashing under his bed so if all goes well he’s not even going to remember any of this. 

He’s loosening the laces on his boots when he sees the book left on his pillow. It looks worse for wear, which makes sense because it’s made its way around every guy in the company who even had the spare thought of reading it in the past few months twice; its cover is missing, the pages wrinkled and intermittently stained, spine cracked and practically falling apart from countless fold overs.

Fuck, if Web saw the state of this thing -

Shaking his head, he takes a second glance at the book. He hadn’t ever expressed any interest in reading it, though the thought had crossed his mind more than once, primarily out of sheer boredom. Perco had read it and expressed nonchalance but recommended it on the basis of making the time pass faster, but he knew at least two other guys that had read it and had actually enjoyed it.

He didn’t know if Web had had his turn with it yet.

Sighing, he ran his thumb over the pages of the book, relishing the light flapping they made as they moved, and figured he had nothing better to do. He unearthed the bottle from his pack at the foot of the bed, taking a hearty swig, before settling with his back against the wall as he opened the book.

He’s not reading it for very long before he realizes why exactly more and more of the guys have put the book down, especially since Landsburg. It’s almost out of spite that he keeps reading it, though he takes a few more gulps of fortifying gin to help choke it down. He’s seen and heard worse than a book can throw at him. 

The gin makes his overactive head go a bit quieter, his brain moving forward to sit in his eye sockets and let the cavern of his skull echo dumbly with sentence after sentence. He allows the descriptions of an America of time gone by reel him in, paying no mind to the thought that though the place he sees might well be a living and breathing America overrun with citizens large and small, buildings touching the sky, streetcars brushing curbs and music floating out of windows on street corners, it was a region he was no longer sure he recognized. The book seems to agree with him, which is a small comfort.

He wants to hate his own cynicism, his own aversion. But he turns the page instead.

Joe falls deep into the book in the early evening, pulls himself away from it to perform a perfunctory round about his side of the town with guys whose faces he doesn’t bother to clock, and then flees back up to his room to snatch up the book again and collapse back down. He doesn’t even manage to get his boots off, just lets them sprawl out on the sheets below him.

And he stays there until Chuck is standing in the doorway, looking at him with a furrowed brow. 

“Whaddya say, Chuck?” he mumbles, bringing his eyes back down to the book. 

“Alright, Joe?” the other man questions, face guarded.

Fighting not to roll his eyes, he turned a page and purposefully didn’t meet his friends eyes. “Yeah, why?”

“You’re on my bed.”

Huh. Joe snaps up to look at Chuck’s still, bemused face, before glancing down to the bed that, yeah, was made where Joe’s was not. So he is.

“Shit.” He immediately pulled himself up from the other man’s bed, smoothing the parts of the sheet where he’d mussed it and accomplishing absolutely nothing. “Sorry, bud,” he muttered, easing back into a similar sprawl across his own bed just adjacent.

Chuck smiles in half amusement and half concern as he pulls his bag from under the bed. “No worries, pal,” he said, withdrawing a pack of cards. “We’re getting ready to start a game downstairs, interested?”

Shaking his head, Joe took up the discarded bottle he’s hidden under his pillow before he left. “Party of one in here tonight,” he attempted to say easily, taking a swig.

“Babe know you have that?” the other man questioned, smiling.

“You gonna tell him?” Joe retorted, coughing slightly at the burn.

Chuck shrugged. “I accept bribes,” he said simply, extending a hand.

Joe snickered, handing the bottle over for Chuck to uncork and take a long pull of before coughing roughly. “Shut up,” he managed to choke as Joe laughed at him, holding the bottle back out. “Asshole.”

“Yeah, yeah, just keep it to yourself, huh?” Joe smiled, taking it back and effectively returning to the book.

Chuck smiled, turning and stepping away before pausing. He seemed to fight with himself for a moment, before turning back to face Joe with an open but carefully muted concern. “Joe?”

Joe sighed. “Yeah?”

The other man’s mouth opened, then closed, and he took the few steps back to stand beside Joe’s bed. “Listen,” he said calmly, going down onto a knee to be at Joe’s level, much to his confusion. “Are you good?”

Frowning, he feigned ignorance. “‘Course, Chuck. What have I got to worry about?”

Chuck doesn’t take the bait. “You’re not yourself,” he said solemnly.

This time he does show his frustration, flipping the book to lay face down on the bed with a scowl. “Skinny’s telling tales out of school, is that it?”

A shake of the head. “He hasn’t said much, but it doesn’t take a damn genius to see that you haven’t been right. You’ve been going through it, we all know that, and if you want to be alone I’ll leave you alone but I just want you to know if you ever need to talk I’m here, alright?”

He loses his words for a moment, ducking his head momentarily to guard against a flush. “Yeah, alright. I know that. Of course I do.”

Chuck nods, a quieter smile on his lips. “That’s all I wanted you to know, Joe.”

He taps Joe’s shoulder once, before standing and beginning to cross back to the door with his cards in hand. On an impulse, face still a bit heated both with the alcohol and with emotion, he calls back: “Hey, Chuck.”

Stopping in the doorway, Chuck looks back at him with a pleased and expectant look. “Yeah?”

Almost, almost, he lets loose about everything. But he catches himself, and instead holds up the book. “You read this?”

The expectant look falls away, but Chuck just laughs a bit and shakes his head. “Not a guy in the company that hasn’t read _A Tree Grows In Brooklyn,_ Joe, sorry to tell you.” 

“Why do you think she wants to taste all the sodas?” Joe questions.

Scoffing, Chuck looked at him with a measure of aghast humor. “Hell, I don’t know. Why don’t you ask Web? Bet he’s written a goddamn term paper about it already.”

Joe frowned, opening the book back up. “I ain’t fucking talking to him.”

“What happened with you two?” Chuck questioned. “Couple weeks ago you’re practically attached at the hip, and now -”

“Alright, Chuck.”

“Maybe I’m not Web’s biggest fan but you mind as well be aiming a pistol at him when he walks in a room these days -”

“ _Alright_ , Chuck,” Joe repeated, a bit of heat in his voice as he looked back at Chuck with clear and present irritation. “Listen, I ain’t talking to Web because I’m not. Maybe you were right about him, maybe everybody was, I just thought...I don’t know. Thought we saw something else with each other. We’re not talking, we’re not going to. End of story.”

The more words he let out of his mouth toll-free the more Chuck’s face seemed to open, to almost ripen and become more alive, culminating in a series of short and knowing nods. “Right,” he muttered, low enough to be meant just for himself. “Right.”

Joe’s embarrassed by both of their reactions. “Right.”

When Chuck meets his eyes again they contain a modicum of clarity. “Joe.”

Shrugging his shoulders up aggressively, Joe raises an eyebrow expectantly. “Chuck.”

“Anything.”

“Huh?”

Chuck doesn’t smile, but it’s perhaps the kindest look he’s seen on the other man’s face in a very long time. “You can talk to me about anything.”

Blinking, Joe nods again. “Yeah, I know.”

“Alright,” Chuck said resolutely, smiling briefly before tapping the door frame with the knuckles of one hand before moving out of the doorway and making his way down the hall towards the rest of guys. “As long as you know!” he called behind him. 

He’s honestly getting pretty sick of feeling like he’s not in on some joke every other son of a bitch in this company is laughing at. “Fucker,” he grumbles, and resolutely buries his face back in the book.

By the time dawn is climbing up over the mountains just beyond his window, making him oddly homesick for the blue of the bay and the feel of the breeze on his face, he’s finished the book. Finished the book, and feels so alive and so wanting right to the bottoms of his veins that he barely stops himself from running out of the room, out of the hotel, out of Austria, out of the world. 

* * *

The dreadful restless feeling beats its wings up against his ribs for most of the day, during which he moves with zombie-like absentmindedness between the guys, who kindly continue to try and engage him in their jokes and the occasional stir about Japan. He barely hears it, honestly, he’s existing in another room entirely. But where that room is would be anybody’s guess.

There’s some to-do planned that night for the bigwigs in the regiment, champagne and all, that he gets looped into helping set up. Set up ostensibly meaning he sits on the counter and supervises (read: chain-smokes) while actual “professionals” ready the room and the table, though he has enough kindness in his heart to rub a spoon against his shirt to polish it. 

He’s just starting to truly feel the drag of sleeplessness against his eyelids when he hears rumblings just outside the banquet hall, starting as they always do with the rapid pounding of jump boots down the stairs, hushed voices raising to exclamations. Frowning, he angles himself off the counter and crosses across the hall to the French doors leading to the foyer. Stupidly he half expects it to be news of Japan’s surrender, which he admonishes himself for the second he sees a downtrodden Luz and Perconte amidst a swirl of other rapidly coming and going men.

His gaze flits between the two curiously for a moment, before jerking his head expectantly. “What’s going on?” he nearly barked. 

Luz sighed, an almost involuntary reaction to his obvious fatigue, as Perco shook his head and, without saying anything, exited out through the terrace doors. Putting a cigarette between his lips and lighting it in almost the same motion, Luz exhaled a stream of smoke out through his nose forcefully, rubbing at his eyelids.

“Janovec’s dead,” he said finally.

Joe very nearly asked the other man to repeat himself, before blinking and schooling himself back into submission. He’s seen guys die before, never mind that they were all almost believing that as long as they remained in Austria it could be peace time for Easy. More fools, they. “How?” he asked dully.

Luz shrugged with his whole face, eyebrows up and then rapidly down. “Car crash, killed him fast,” he summarized succinctly, just the slightest tremble in his voice betraying that he knew Janovec to be anything other than a name on a big Deceased notice. “Stupid shit.”

Of all the dumbass ways for an Easy man to die outside combat, getting killed in some no-sense accident ranks up there pretty high. “Car crash?” he repeated skeptically. 

Rolling his eyes tiredly, Luz turned to the stairs and set off climbing up to his bunk, no doubt. “I don’t know, Joe, ask Web.”

Frowning, Joe followed after for a few steps before stopping himself. “Web?”

“Saw it happen I guess,” Luz drawled over his shoulder, not ceasing his ascent. “Was with him- the body, I mean.”

Oh, well. Luz is gone in a blink, vanishing upstairs with just the faint thump of his boots on the stairs, leaving Joe alone with the realization that he very badly wants to talk to Web right now. He shakes his head; Web himself is a casualty of his own nature, his know-it-all, bare-faced emotionality wrapped up in the Encyclopedia Britannica brand of _Writer, Observer, Witness_ alienates anybody stupid enough to try and wring more than two sentences out of him. Part of that isn’t his fault, which Joe knows intimately, but it’s done enough that Web has little to no real friends in the company. None that might seek him out right now, anyway.

So, if anything, Web will want to talk to him right now.

And Joe is a sucker for being needed. For looking in the direction of a person who needs his help and closing his eyes. It doesn’t come easy, but when it does it overwhelms him. Especially when it pertains to Web, who looks for all the world like a big sugary confection anyone and everyone could happen across and take a bite out of. Whether the bite hurts or not is of no import, but he knows better than most that after a few bites they don’t hurt any less.

Right now he feels like he’s being swallowed. Better head that shit off at the pass. 

“Damn it,” he hissed to himself angrily. Angry at himself, or angry at Web for making him angry at himself, he couldn’t say. It was hard to locate the source of anything these days, his insides felt a Gordian knot. Shaking his head forcefully he crossed over to the counter he’d been perched on, swiping the champagne that had been left to chill in a bucket before resolutely loping out of the room, moving swiftly across the patio to begin making his way down the sun-saturated incline. 

He knows exactly where to go.

It’s entirely possible Web tells him to fuck off. That could happen, and that would be alright, he’d have asked for it. Still, it didn’t keep him from running a hand nervously through his hair, cursing the length of his fringe and vowing to trim it in the next few days.

The trees were giving way to the sight of the lake fast; the water moving in that perfect, organized chaos, the pale blue of the evening sky reflected in a dark kaleidoscope of lavender and gray. To the West the sun was setting rapidly, moving from honey, to a sort of muted golden mist.

Against this, Web practically melted against the landscape: still dressed, every button surely done, spine curved forward lightly as he sat upon the edge of the dock with his damn notebook that lay folded spine up beside him. 

He wasn’t sure to advertise his approach or not. If he did he risked scaring Web away, but surprising him while in this mood might not be a sound decision either. Gathering a calming breath, he opted to walk a little more forcefully onto the dock, letting the vibration of his intention travel from him to Web.

But he needn’t have worried, Web’s back remained firmly facing him, head lowered towards the water almost as though he didn’t hear. 

Fingers contracting lightly around his grip on the bottle, which was cool and beginning to condense against the anxious sweat of his hand. Suddenly he was there, facing Web, who was facing the water, and the water which afforded no escape. The breeze rushed up between them, cool and carrying the faint stink of nature. He realized quickly he didn’t know what to say, what precisely he could say that would make any difference.

Wordlessly, he stepped up beside Web, who was startled back into their sorry reality by the movement. He looked tossed, dogged, though in no tangible way. His pale skin carried a light flush, a thin coat of sweat dotting his hairline and his cheekbones, courtesy of the receding summer sun. Perhaps it was his eyes that made all the difference; weary, half-dead eyes, so blue they practically faded to violet around his pupil. And they didn’t come alive for Joe, a fact he bitterly admitted stung him even now.

With what he hoped was an understanding expression falling over his face like an illusion veil, he held out the bottle of champagne to the other man.

Web looked at the bottle with bare-faced confusion, before glancing back up at Joe as though to gauge if he was telling a joke. Encountering nothing but the other man’s earnest, if guarded, expression, he shook his head and turned back to the water. 

“I’m not thirsty, thank you,” he rebuffed softly, voice as distant as his lidded gaze.

Joe shook his head, moving the bottle closer to Web. “Put it on the back of your neck, it’s cold.”

Web looked back at him with a different breed of surprise, mouth opening in half-suspicion, half-almost hope. It was too close to the way he wanted Web to look at him, and it made the skin of his neck redden, and he gave the bottle still in front of the other man’s face a shake. 

“It helps,” he insisted. 

That small movement seemed to chase away whatever lingering shadow hung around Web’s face, as he blinked quickly for a moment before reaching a hand up and taking the bottle. “Oh,” he murmured dumbly, to which Joe scoffs and immediately works his way down to sit beside him on the edge of the dock. Shooting Web an expectant look seems to be the final step to get him to bring the chilled glass to the back of his neck, and he gets an inscrutable blue look back for his troubles, along with a muttered but genuine: “Thanks.”

Joe settles back on his hands, feeling the waves beneath them just brushing the soles of his boots. “Heard about Janovec,” he attempted to breach innocuously, gaze not leaving the dark mosaic of the water.

Beside him, Web’s fingers flex against the bottle he holds to his neck. “...Yeah.”

Glancing aside, Joe sucks at the inside of his cheek, pondering whether he should let Web try and come to him or if he should push. What the hell, he was already down here when he swore never to speak to Web again, what’s the harm?

“You want to talk about it?”

Web sighed, removing the bottle from its place against his neck, leaving a smear of condensation in its wake. “Lieb, I appreciate it. I do, believe me,” he said coldly, looking to Joe with weary, pained eyes. “But if you’re just here because you think I’m some sissy who can’t cut it then you can save it, ok?” Joe is surprised at the rigidity he sees in Web’s face, but isn’t altogether sold by the front, as cracks are evident in the other man’s reluctance to meet his eyes. “I’ll be fine.”

Joe huffed. “That’s not what I’m doing. Jesus. I just…” his voice trailed off, finding he himself lost exactly where he was supposed to be, on what side of the line between them he was supposed to stay on. “I just…”

Blinking expectantly, Web’s eyes moved searchingly across his reddening cheeks. “What?”

Joe met his discerning gaze with a hint of scorn, resenting the way his face was giving the game away when he didn’t even want to play in the first place. “Just wanted to be sure about you is all, I guess.” 

Whatever Joe’s face lets him in on appears to appease Web slightly, as his eyes open up for Joe the way they would when their hands brushed, when he’d catch Joe looking at him and he’d look away quickly, when he’d find a sad looking field flower tucked in his notebook. “Well,” he said softly, considering, before looking back out to the water. “Do you feel sure?”

Shaking his head, relishing the breeze that passed them, Joe joined him in looking out. “Not really.”

“Me either,” Web agreed readily, if quietly. He lifted the bottle back to his neck. “But I will, soon. No worries.”

Joe glanced askance at him, before immediately averting his eyes. “Not worried,” he mumbled.

Web huffed a laugh at that. “I can see that,” he said, looking back towards Joe with an expression that blurred around the edges until it was nearly soft.

Now it was Joe’s turn to look expectant, fast becoming impatient and uncomfortable with the gentleness of Web’s eyes. “What?”

Smile becoming a bit sharper, Web pulled his eyes away. “Nothing.”

“What?” he repeated, more curious than impatient now.

“I…” Web started, looking back at Joe and holding the other man’s dark ones in his with an inscrutable tenderness. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in years, Lieb.”

Joe can only hold the gaze, but he feels his mouth part slightly and Web himself breaks it by glancing down towards his lips. He pulls his lips in restlessly, glancing behind them to ensure the dock is as empty as it was a moment ago, and why he looks back Web’s eyes are lowered exactly where they should be. “Well, that’s fucking stupid.”

“I know,” Web agreed immediately, pulling in a deep breath. “I know.”

He doesn’t know why he doesn’t just leave it there, let it lie, but he finds his lips parting again. “Feel like I can’t get away from you,” he admits quietly, feeling the way Web looks back at his face in surprise, but allowing his own eyes to stay trained back on the water. “So I guess you got one over on me, huh?”

Web’s unexpected _‘Ha!’_ unwinds the knot in his spine, and he finds himself relaxing as the other man shakes his head, averting his eyes. “That was always the goal, you found me out,” he joked lightly.

He’s reaching an arm out before he can stop himself, and by the time his hand is playfully pushing over the expanse of Web’s back they’re both too surprised to break the contact. Joe, caught by the betrayal of his own body, lets his hand rest against the knobs of Web’s spine, letting the heat of the other man’s body press up against his palm the way it used to when a caress was masqueraded as a shove. He releases the contact with another, more intentional push, and plastered an easy smile on his face to ease the sudden tension. “I oughta push you in the goddamn lake, Webster, swear to God.” 

Thankfully Web brushes it off as easily as Joe did. “It was a sanctioned mission,” he quipped dryly. “I’d make sure you were court martialed.”

“You’re underestimating me if you think I’d get caught, first of all, and even if I did get caught I’d get them to see my side so fast it’d make your head spin.” He leaned back once again, alarmed at how relaxed he feels in Web’s presence to the point where he doesn’t even crave a smoke. “I’d be outta there no questions asked.”

Web chuckled, eyebrows raised. “Sounds like life after my death is going pretty well for you.”

It’s said just a bit too somberly for Joe’s taste, and a quick glance at Web’s face shows that his eyes are down once again but not strictly focused. “Yeah. Well,” he shrugged. “Bet I’d feel a little bad after a while.”

The look Web levels back at him is too earnest, even as his smile attempts to twist itself into a joke. “Promise?”

Joe feels himself warm inside, and this time he knows it has nothing to do with a flush. “Yeah, I’m sure after a year or so I’d glance at a library and think of you,” he said, fighting back a wide smile at Web’s accompanying laugh. Which reminds him. “Hey, speaking of, you read the book yet?”

Frowning, Web removed the bottle from his neck. “The book?”

“Yeah, Tree book. Brooklyn book.”

Web’s frown took on an overwhelmingly amused air. “ _A Tree Grows in Brooklyn_?”

“Yeah,” Joe nodded. “You read it yet?”

“Uh,” Web almost laughs, eyeing him skeptically. “Yes?”

“Why do you think she wants to try all the sodas?” Joe asked, as serious as anything. 

Web blinked, caught off guard. “Huh. Well,” he paused a moment, considering his next words with a bite to his lip and a new focused light to his eyes. “Francie loves order, I suppose. She loves the things her parents weren’t able to have. But she also resents them, too. So maybe trying them all is just something she has to do to feel more like her own person.”

Joe took this in, chewing his cheek in consideration. “Yeah...that would make sense.”

Angling himself to better face Joe, Web peered at him inquisitively. “Why? Why do you think she does it?”

This is shaky territory for him, here. Joe hasn’t been asked to explain what he thinks something means since his last year of school, which was a long fucking time ago. But Web is looking at him with a sparkle to his eyes that rarely burns brighter than when he’s talking about some lofty Idea of something. So, he tries. 

“She...wants to do everything.” He pauses, glancing at Web’s face to detect any flicker of judgement or derision, and finds none. “Wants to feel everything, try everything, because one day it might be different for her. It’s like that when you’re a kid, you know? Maybe by the time she grows up the flavors will be gone. Or changed, anyway.”

Web listened intently to his words, head bobbing lightly for a moment as he thought. “I think that’s right.”

Feeling vindicated but still slightly bashful, Joe glanced out. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Web agreed immediately, his own eyes moving back up to Joe’s face even as the other man pretended to be locked on the water. “If I had known any of this was out here, waiting for me, or for you, I never would have hesitated. I would have done...just anything.”

“Everything,” Joe said without thinking, eyes darting back to Web’s face. He hadn’t meant to say it, really, didn’t mean to open a door he’d been trying desperately to nail shut.

Web’s face is lost in a soft melancholy mask, but after a moment he bobs his head in a slow nod. “Everything,” he half-whispers. 

Joe swallows. “Not too late, you know?” he said roughly.

For a moment Web’s entire face seems to go out of focus, his eyes fluttering down to the water, lip crumpled. What seems like a second later, Web looks back at him resolutely. “I don’t know, Joe. Could be,” he met Joe’s eyes once more, some touch of pain creasing his face, before sighing. “All too late.”

Web’s standing, taking his discarded book in hand and leaving the bottle abandoned on the dock, before he even thinks to respond. As the other man rights himself, running a hand through his hair, Joe can only sputter wordlessly for a moment before cursing himself for doing so. “Your head alright?” he finally rushes.

“Yeah,” Web nodded, voice tight and high-pitched. He barely even looks at Joe before he starts off down the dock. “Thank you, really,” he rasps over his shoulder, the space between them growing with every moment, every word Joe thinks and doesn’t call out.

“Anytime,” Joe said softly, nearly to himself.

* * *

He’s nearly legless by the time he makes it back to the hotel.

The other guys had wandered out, similarly distracted, after the replacement had been successfully delivered into the hands of the MPs. Joe had remained frozen for some time, the adrenaline of the past few hours leaving his body in the space of a blink, leaving nothing but shaking hands and a brain that would rather live in his eyelids than in his head once again. He thinks Babe approaches him, he knows that McClung does, but he’s deaf to it.

It feels like he takes a single breath, and all of a sudden he’s on the street. On the street nowhere near the hotel, which means he’s been walking for a fucking while. And that’s not fucking smart of him to be wandering around practically deaf and blind at night after what happened to Chuck - 

“Fuck,” he hisses to himself, lighting a smoke with shaking hands. 

It’s not right. Not a fucking piece of it. 

He smokes, turning back the way that he apparently came, cursing himself all the while. What fucking good is he, what fucking good is anybody over here if something like this is allowed to happen to as good a man as Chuck? He should have been there. He’s liberated how many fuckloads of towns all over Europe that he can’t name and he can’t help one guy that stuck by him in the goddamn dirt, and the snow, and the rain, and the pain, and it’s not right. 

Chuck is his friend. He doesn’t even know what’s going to happen to him now. That’s fucking sick. It’s depraved.

God, but he _hates_ it here. _Hates_ it. He wants to be home. Wants to sit at the table with his mother and have a cup of coffee. Wants to play ball with Rachel and Sarah, and maybe Judy if she’ll have it. Wants to stand out and look at the bay and just breathe in the air of _Home_ , of the Italian restaurant by the barber shop he used to pick up shifts at, of starchy linens. Hear the sound of a key in the door. 

Fuck this place. 

Suffice it to say, if his head is screwed back on by the time he gets back to the hotel his feet surely aren’t. For some reason this night is the night they’re rebelling against him, maybe because this is when he actually needs them to keep working unlike every other bullshit march he’s been made to go on since Toccoa. 

He mind as well be wearing horse blinders as he blunders his way up the stairs, reaching his floor and grappling along the wall to get to his door. He’s a breath away from shoving the door open when he hears it; a faint but distinct rumble through the wood, clearly someone in the midst of a crying jag, interspersed with whispers of a language he doesn’t think is English but can’t quite make out. Maybe two voices, maybe three voices, but enough voices and enough rhythm that he sighs and backs away from the door.

Not a bed in that room he can crawl into without attention that night.

Every step aggravates his aching feet, feeling more swollen by the moment, as he drags them all the way back the direction he came. The lounge adjacent to the brightly lit, but abandoned, lobby is dark but he’s familiar enough with the topography of the room that he stiffly works around low tables and chairs, following the dim light from the windows towards -

“Lieb?”

“Jesus!” Joe exclaims, jumping slightly at the sudden voice before wincing as his own reaction shifts the weight on his feet. Fear is quickly replaced by irritation, and he looks just to his left where Webster, like a true pain in the ass, is on the floor between two sofas, a single and not very powerful lamp on the floor beside him.

Web has the fucking nerve to look critically at him as he gapes in surprise and residual consternation. “The fuck is the matter with you, what are you doing?” Joe gasps.

“Excuse me, I was minding my own business in here before you came along,” Web muttered, shooting him an ugly look. 

Joe scoffed, too exhausted to even entertain the argument of ownership over a room in a place he doesn’t even like. “Whatever,” he mumbled back, resuming his slow and aching journey over to the window.

Web must shrug him off as well, as silence meets his acquiescence. Joe silently thanks him for it as he tugs the frilly cushion off the window seat and onto the floor, clumsily lowering himself beside it to hastily pull the laces on his boots, effectively loosening them enough that he nearly groans in relief. He doesn’t have the energy to even pull them off, only just mustering the strength to lift them up above him to rest on the window seat, moving the pillow under his head. That might help with the swelling tonight, at least.

He feels so drained that it’s an honest to God surprise that his eyes don’t immediately fall shut. But his head races, reels, thinking of Chuck, of the dead-eyed replacement, of how Speirs’ hand had trembled when he held the gun to his head. They circle around his empty head like a baby’s mobile, hypnotizing and nauseating. 

A sequence of scratches finally coaxes his eyes back open, and he doesn’t have to tip his head very far to get eyes on Web, writing away at that notebook of his. One hand is anchored just above his forehead, fingers grasping and pulling his hair from his face, and his eyes are somewhat vacant but focused intently on the movement of his hand moving surely over the page. He pauses, setting the pen down and shaking his hand out with a grimace, pulling in a slow breath and exhaling it with forced calm. After a moment he takes his hand from his hair, angling himself slightly onto his elbows, and takes the pen in his left to continue writing.

Joe didn’t know he could do that. 

For a while, he’s not wholly sure how long, he simply fills his head with the sight of Web writing, of the fast and steady movement of his hand, the slow blink of his eyes, the way his lower lip bunches up in his teeth. He doesn’t know what compels him, but he finds the words slipping out, soft as anything.

“You write about Chuck ever?” 

Web looks over at him almost as though he expected Joe to speak, and pauses. “Sometimes,” he settles, just as quiet.

Joe expels his breath with a hard push, feeling the weight settling all over his body, muscles loosening up in his mouth. “You write about me?”

This time Web nearly smiles. “Sometimes.”

“Your hands ain’t tired?”

“Hm.”

“You ain’t tired?”

A weak grunt.

Joe tilted his head back towards the window, a narrow view of the night sky outside just visible to him. “Know anything about stars, Web?”

A sigh. “Joe,” Web nearly groaned, a trace of amusement to his voice. “If you want me to come over there you can just ask.”

“I did ask,” Joe mumbled petulantly. He’s entitled to a mind game, this has been a hell of a night. 

There’s a moment of silence, before the sound of the book being gently closed and the lamp dimmed. He nearly breathes a sigh of relief at the noise of Web’s approach, childishly crawling across the darkened floor, before humming in surprise at the sensation of Web’s head hitting the pillow beside his own. There’s not much room between them to turn his head, but he can make out the hard lines of Web’s neck, his turned face, the sound of his body stretching to lie long behind them on the floor.

Now that he has Web where he wants him he feels at a loss as to what to do next. Again, he feels the need to berate himself. Web’s going to have the wrong fucking idea, is going to make it more than it is, and it’s going to be because Joe let him. And neither of them are going to feel good about it in the daylight. 

At the same time, he craves the proximity of their history. Needs to rest beside someone who has seen the best of him, the worst of him. Being alone isn’t in the cards for him tonight, and he finds he never really wanted to be.

“Web?”

The other man’s head turns minutely towards him, his profile jolting in the scant light. “Yes?”

“Please don’t fall asleep,” he forces out, voice trembling in shame-laced entreaty.

“I can’t fall asleep.”

Joe closed his eyes, appeased. “Good.”

Web must sense that he’s closed his eyes, as he laughingly scoffs. “Well, don’t you fall asleep,” he whispers back. 

“I’m not,” he argues.

“Your eyes are closed.” 

“You can’t even see me, what the hell are you talking about?”

Web’s face turns toward him more fully. “Tell me something.”

Frowning, Joe cracked an eye open and turned his own face towards the other man, startling a bit as their noses bumped. Quickly flinching away, Joe could feel himself warming at the sound of Web laughing at him, and put an extra few centimeters of space between them. “What something?” he questioned, brushing off the moment.

“Any something. So you don’t fall asleep,” Web said simply. “Tell me about your family.”

Thrown, Joe’s eyes opened to blink up at the ceiling, resolutely fighting the urge to turn to Web again. “My family,” he repeated.

“Sure,” Web said, his breath gusting over Joe’s ear and making him shiver lightly. “I know you have sisters, how many do you have?”

Joe swallowed, giving in. “I have five sisters.”

“Five?” Web repeated, surprised.

“Yeah, they’re all younger,” Joe nodded against the pillow. “Oldest is three years younger, youngest is fourteen years, I think.”

Web made a sound of delighted awe. “Your mother must be a titan.”

Joe’s lips split open on a welcome laugh, the feeling opening his chest up for the first time that night. “She is, she is,” he agreed, smiling dumbly in the dark. “When my pop died, I don’t know how she managed any of it. All of us, the whole fucking fiasco,” he tacked on with a touch of melancholy. 

Web hummed. “I didn’t know he’d passed,” he acknowledged gently. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, eight years ago,” Joe confirmed, semi-brusquely. Talking about his father is not the direction he wants to go when the night has already been as long and hard as it has. “What about you?”

He almost feels the frown levelled at him. “Me?”

Joe rolls his eyes, and hopes Web can tell he did. “Yeah, you got any sisters? Brothers?”

A curious pause, before Web replied. “I have a younger sister and a younger brother.”

Again, he has to laugh. “So we’re both the test runs for our folks, huh?”

This at least seems to loosen whatever was tightening up in Web, who huffs a laugh back at him. “Somehow we have that in common, Lieb.”

He gives in to a light curiosity. “Your family German?”

Web seems to frown back in the dark. “No?”

“Oh,” he blinked. “How do you know how to speak it?”

A pause. “Well,” the other man says finally, quietly before huffing a small laugh. “I almost don’t want to tell you.”

“Tell me, you gotta tell me now.”

Web sighs, before giving in. “My nanny was German.”

Blowing a raspberry that erupts into a laugh, Joe shakes his head, feeling the intense proximity of their bodies as his hair brushes Web’s face. “Of course you had a fucking nanny,” he manages to cough. “Holy shit.”

Joe imagines he can feel the heat of a blush next to his face in the dark as Web silently huffed. “You asked.”

Shaking his head, he pushed a breath through his mouth to try and force the residual laughter out. “Well, your German ain’t half bad. If we ever get back stateside I’ll send her a card or something.”

Web hummed. “She’s dead actually. An accident when I was 10.”

Amusement halted abruptly, Joe was reminded of Janovec, which led him clattering back into thoughts of Chuck. “That’s too bad,” he said softly, and found that he meant it. For Web’s dead German nanny, for all the rest. The sad, sorry lot of them.

He feels the other man give a brief shake of the head. “Long time ago,” Web replied, voice as soft and thoughtful as Joe’s supposed his own had been. “Anyway, after she died I kept learning on my own and then later at school. Never expected to have a real use for it, I guess after a while I was only doing it because I knew my father wanted me to speak anything else.” 

Joe finds it in him to give a light snicker. “So you find a way to bitch and moan about everything stateside too, huh?” he whispered playfully. “That’s not just something you picked up on your European vacation?”

Thankfully Web laughs back. “Is that what I’m on, Lieb? A vacation?”

“Yeah, you didn’t know?”

“Huh,” Web nodded. “I’m going to have to write a very strongly worded letter to my travel provider.” 

Joe sighs, body giving over to an exhausted ease in the dark. “Add my name onto the signature, will you?”

The feeling of breath tickling delicately at the skin of his jaw is his indication that Web has turned his head. “Do your sisters speak German as well as you do?”

He sucked his teeth for a moment. “Eh. The oldest two speak it well enough, but the others don’t really,” unthinkingly, he turned his head the tiniest bit to feel the thrum of the scant space between their faces. “My folks speak it with each other. Used to, I mean. And my grandparents.”

He almost feels Web smile they’re so close. “That’s nice. It’s sort of sweet, really.”

“Is it?”

“I think so. When two people can communicate and it’s…” Web pauses, before releasing a measured sigh. “I don’t know, sort of veiled. It’s like a secret handshake.”

He thinks about the way he can feel when Web is looking at him. About how when they would argue it was never totally about that argument, it was just the same argument they’d been having since Holland. About the _knowing_ he’s suddenly filled with, the understanding he feels matched beat for bet next to him. “Secret handshake,” he murmurs.

Web’s warmth moves incrementally as he turns his face back to the darkness. “To me, at least.”

“No,” Joe found himself saying. “I think that’s right.”

The other man takes a curious pause, his warmth returning to its proximity beside Joe’s face, before Web hums happily. “Can I get that in writing?”

“Fuck off, Web,” Joe smiles.

And he really does. He’s smiling into the shadows, marveling at the thought that they had never done this before; laid in the dark, not touching anywhere, and talked. They’d performed some facsimile of this, but never quite this civil, this curious, this strangely quiet. For the second time that night, he finds he doesn’t mind. 

“Say something else,” he says, voice still low.

“Like what?” Web asks, not reluctantly.

“Anything,” Joe brushes off, before suddenly: “Everything.”

He can feel Web’s eyes on him in the darkness, and wonders if he can see anything at all, if he sees too much or too little. For a moment he wants to tell Web to forget it, lick his wounds and determine to never try and pick at unhealed scabs again, before the other man’s voice fills the darkness. 

* * *

He’s spinning, lightheaded like hunger, lightheaded like booze, lightheaded like a kid spinning just to spin. When he hits the ground, as he recognizes it, it comes with a horrible dullness that ricochets around his entire being, a feeling of awful emptiness. 

When he looks back he’s looking right in Web’s eyes in the moments after they first kissed. The stars are glistening behind his head like a crown of lights, his eyes are shadowed and wide in an alluring but dangerous stare, lips parted and unassuming. He’s supposed to push him away - 

Instead he blinks and Web’s on top of him, and his bare chest is a memory and the dewy red apples of his cheeks are memories, but all this is, all the impression of himself inside of Web’s body is is hope because they had never never done it and he wants - 

A neck alongside his neck, curling against each other like swans - 

_Mouth_ \- 

Spin spin spin dance dance Web’s eyes his eyes Web’s eyes and kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss - 

A thought powerful enough to buckle his knees: Web in his mother’s house, Web sitting beside his youngest sister on their front stoop, Web smiling back at him as he stands at the edge of the shore and then Web and then Web and then Web and then - 

And then waking. 

Waking to the smell of old sweat, the lingering balance of soap. The scent tickled his nose, and upon peeling his eyes open he came to the realization that the tickle was more due to the faceful of hair he was currently buried in. Grimacing, he dislodged himself from the mussed forest of hair his face had gravitated to in the night, taking in the dim light creeping over the floor and ceilings of the lounge, blue and hazy with the dawn of an abnormally cloudy day. His feet were practically bloodless now, and he let them fall from the window seat to the floor with a dull thud. 

Beside him, Web’s face was still tilted upwards, lips parted in a soft pout as his breath steadily moved his chest. They can’t have been asleep for very long, he has a vague recollection of their conversation slowing at the first sign of darkened blue amidst the black night in the window, but even now he can hear creaks along the ceiling where Easy is rousing itself to face another day, and it won’t be long before men begin clamoring down the stairs. 

Now it’s as quiet as a graveyard in this room where he and Web slept with their heads on the same pillow, close enough to breathe sleeping breaths into each other's bodies. Even now, Joe’s face is close enough that if he wanted to his lips would meet Web’s temple, would press a kiss to sleep-warmed skin and coax the other man into wakefulness, into more warmth, into more everything.

If he wanted.

He lingers close a minute more, every element of his being drowning in a strange thankfulness moving from his body and reaching out for Web’s. Thanking him silently for what he’d done, wanting to tell him what it meant to -

Web’s head rolled restlessly against the pillow, turning his gently rousing face in Joe’s direction, almost unconsciously seeking out the warmth of his breath. His eyes are out of focus, fluttering lightly, blinking into wakefulness before noticing Joe’s proximity. Joe fights with himself briefly, unsure whether to say something, some platitude one spouts after sleeping, and decides to let Web wake in silence. 

For once, Web himself remains silent, too. As his eyes gain clarity, his mouth moves from the soft resting pout it had fallen into in sleep, and moves instead into a plaintive line. They regard each other, the past night of hardship and pain passing through them like a sudden chill, one that he fights not to burrow into Web to ward off. He realizes with a start that he still hadn’t moved away from Web around the exact second that Web realizes this too, his eerily focused eyes zeroing in on the scant centimeters between them.

Maybe he means it, maybe he doesn't, but Web’s mouth gently tilts in towards him.

Joe has no strength, no weapon to fight off the surge of heat that sears through his chest and blooms through every vein, and his muscle memory is coaxed by this small movement. His lips are a hair's breadth from Web’s, he can feel the future breathing on his neck as real as anything and all he has to do is say _I was wrong, I didn’t mean it, forgi_ -

But he can’t do it.

Although his body is stiff, aching still, he moves up quickly. Or tries, because Web’s reflexes are not as tired as his eyes are and as quick as he moves Web’s hand is curling around the back of his neck, fingers entwined in the short, dark strands at the base. He freezes, meeting Web’s eyes below him with no small amount of trepidation tinged with anxiety. Web’s face is open, challenging and yearning at once, as gently he guides Joe’s face back down towards his own.

This time he resists, his muscles recovering another memory in reserve. Their faces are close, and though Web continues trying to pull him closer Joe manages to halt the journey with a soft shake of his head.

“I can’t, Web,” he whispers roughly.

“Why can’t you?” the other man asks, voice cracked with sleep and eyes beginning to go even bluer with mist.

He has to break his eyes away from Web’s, and he closes them against the feeling of the other man’s palm still anchored against his head. 

“Because you hurt me,” he admits, voice a low rasp.

When he looks back down into Web’s eyes his face has gone crumpled in the way that sent him running last time, eyes rimmed with wet pain. He opens his mouth, pauses, and then sucks in a tiny breath before speaking.

“I never meant to hurt you, Joe,” Web croaks.

Joe swallows, nods.

Sniffing slightly, Web nods back slowly. “But I did,” he admits.

“Yeah, you did.”

Web mind as well be begging him with the way his eyes bore up at Joe, like he’s the first glimpse of sun after the coldest winter he’d ever seen. “I’m so sorry,” he says quietly, barely a whisper.

His chest aches, feeling stunningly empty, his stomach throbbing with it. “I know you are,” he nods roughly.

A shudder moves through Web’s body, and his eyes close momentarily with the force of it, and when they reopen a single drop of crystalline liquid rolls sideways down his cheek and off of his face. “But it’s not enough,” he says surely, though his whisper wobbles.

He moves instinctually, his hand cradling the side of Web’s chilled face so that his thumb can brush away the hot line of the tear, gathering the moisture into his own skin. “Don’t,” he protests softly, trying to impart everything, everything he’s feeling and everything he’s felt and just _everything_ into his eyes and transmit it down into Web’s. “Don’t.”

Web turns his face into Joe’s hand slightly, relishing the warmth of his palm and letting his eyes slip shut for the space of a few painfully controlled breaths. When he opens his eyes they’re steadier, and the painful longing has receded somewhat.

“Can we,” Web starts, his mouth close enough that when he speaks his lips flutter against Joe’s skin. “Are we friends again, at least?”

Joe sighs. Closes his eyes, and lowers his head out of sight. What else does he want? He has Web here, practically weeping, apologizing, asking him to throw him even just the smallest scrap of his affection, what else does he want? He doesn’t even know what he wants.

“I don’t know what we are,” he admits, his own regretful eyes moving back to meet Web’s as earnestly as he can. 

Closing his eyes again, Web pulls in a stuttering deep breath but keeps his face achingly still. 

“Web?”

“You can go, Lieb,” the other man whispered.

“Do you want me to go?” Joe asks, even as he aches to stay.

With a sigh, Web rolls away from the press of his hand, giving his gently quivering back to Joe. “I need-” he begins, before clearing his throat. “I need to pull myself together.”

Joe nods, swallowing heavily as he brings his hand back in towards his body. “Ok. Alright,” he agrees quietly, stiffly getting his feet in order and standing. “I’ll leave you alone.”

The silence of the room echoes round him as he drags his leaden feet across the quickly brightening floor of the lounge, exiting into the marble and glass lobby with a small sigh of relief. He barely slept, and he can feel the weight of it over his shoulders, boring into his muscles and his eyes. Rubbing a hand over his face, grimacing at his own need for a wash, he fights not to swear in frustration. 

Pulling his hand from his face he’s met with the sight of Lip seated on a bench adjacent to the entrance of the lounge, cool as anything. He freezes, hand hovering up near his mouth where he left it, where it hopefully obscures the shock radiating from his expression. Lip is fully dressed, looking as tired as can be expected, but put together in a way that only he can manage to be in the hours after a disaster, and Joe wants to pretend that the look he’s being levelled with is less knowing than he thinks it is.

“Joe,” he greets.

He clears his throat briefly. “Lip.”

Lip’s brow is furrowed, a light concern ghosting over his eyes and the turn of his mouth. “Alright?” he prompts gently, voice hushed as though it were just him and Joe in the entire hotel.

The last thing he is right now is alright, but if he started in on it now he might never stop, and he’d stand here yelling until the goddamned war ended and everybody went home and left him standing in the lobby of a hotel in Austria. “Yeah, alright, Lip,” he nods, hoping his voice is reassuring. “‘Course.”

The other man stands, crossing to Joe with measured steps that bounce dully around them in the empty room. Lip regards him for a moment, searching over his exhausted features for cracks, before settling a big hand on Joe’s shoulder, clasping it warmly for a moment. 

“Alright,” he nods, moving his hand from Joe’s shoulder to step away and begin towards the front entrance, where clouds were giving way to sunlight. “Wash up, boy,” he calls over his shoulder, a reassuring smile crossing his lips. “Big day ahead.”

* * *

_You all deserve long and happy lives in peace._

He sees himself in his head: shivering, cold, alone, and conjures the heat of Web’s face against his palm to warm the memory.

* * *

It’s one of the last days of July, a season that is proving to be better served bootless. Bootless next to a lake, if possible, and thank Joe’s lucky stars that if Austria has an abundance of anything it’s lakes and booze. Especially so in these days, the days where it really does feel like there’s nothing left in the world for them to do but slouch and loosen their straps and, somehow, wait for the war to be over.

And in moments like this the end was so close they could practically feel the pulse of it dying.

But that might just be his skin cells dying, as he’d been lying on the goddamn dock with no shirt on for half an hour.

He’d been planning on coming down since the day before when the other guys had mentioned it, but had only decided on laying facedown once he realized that, among the usual suspects gathered, Web was there, unassuming as anything. Maybe it wasn’t that odd; after all, for every time one of the guys cornered Joe about Web he’s sure Web might have received the same treatment in return. 

Some big secret. 

So he’d arrived, peeled his shirt off, and quite literally hit the deck by planting his face in the wood. Nobody ever accused him of being the most mature of the “old men” of the company, so sue him.

Even though he’s been trying. In his own way, but he’s been trying to be better about Web, not just to himself but in general; he doesn’t scowl at him, doesn’t try to avoid him, won’t even make jokes to the other guys anymore. He’s been trying, and he’s been good, too.

Not that it matters, because the tables have turned on him. 

Now Web is the one that avoids _him_. Won’t meet his eyes, won’t talk to him, and he doesn’t like that shit one fucking bit. And maybe Joe was too hard on him, maybe he could have fucking given in for once in his life and just gave the both of them what they wanted and fuck the consequences.

He thinks that _now_.

Of course he couldn’t fucking think that when he literally had Web in front of him trying to make it right, that would have been too easy. Ain't nothing allowed to be easy in Joe’s world, even when he has every chance to make it so. 

He’s barely even heard the conversation around him he’s been so lost to his own distraction, so that by the time he lifts his head with a groan he finds most of the guys have gone.

Save for Web, seated a bit behind him, with his back to Joe once again, gazing out over the expanse of the water. He’s still dressed, his boots still laced, even, and the light breeze ruffles his hair as Joe finds himself gazing.

“Where’re the guys?” he asks, voice a bit drunk from the heat.

The other man turns to look over his shoulder at him, face a bit dumb with surprise as he appears to battle with himself as to whether to even answer or not. “Said something about stealing some boats down the way, they’ll be back.”

He grunts in acknowledgement, rolling his right shoulder and pretending not to notice that Web is still looking at him and trying to look like he’s not. He decides to make the most of it, anyway. “How my shoulders lookin’, Web?”

He hears Web _‘tsk’_. “Red, red, red.”

Joe _‘hmm’s_ , dipping his head. “Red attracts.”

It takes him a few seconds to realize that he’d rattled that off, and by the time he jolts his head back up to look at Web and see if maybe he got lucky and he hadn’t heard it Web is already smiling. 

“Is that a fact?” Web asks, face practically radiating delight.

“That’s what my sisters say,” Joe attempts to excuse.

Web shakes his head. “You don’t need to explain anything to me, Lieb.”

“They say it all the time, it’s not…” he trails, realizing he’s fighting a losing battle by the way Web just keeps nodding at him with that dumbass smile on his face. “Like, sweaters. And lipstick. You know? Red attracts.”

“Red attracts,” Web nods sagely. 

“You know what, I _don’t_ need to explain anything to you,” Joe retorted, thorns popping out at the residual smile Web shoots him. 

Coughing out an aggrieved sound, Web does that stupid head bobble he does when Joe says something he thinks is incorrect. “I just _told_ you you don’t!”

“I can see your face!” Joe argues. “I can see the fucking judgement in your _face_.”

“That’s my face!” Web cries, a hand flying up to enunciate his words. “That is _just_ my _face_.”

“You were trying to start something.”

“Excuse me? You’re the one who is starting something, Joe, if you haven’t noticed I’ve been making it a point _not_ to start anything with you.”

Joe scoffs. “Yeah I fucking noticed, you don’t exactly make it hard to miss, princess.”

Web’s frown moved from slightly offended to accusing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He’s waded too far into Web’s territory, he realizes with a numb chill. “Never mind,” he grumbles.

“Joe, for Christ’s sake, will you just say what you want to say?” Web asked, voice finally breaking free of whatever civil patina he’d constructed over the last few days. 

“I fucking said never mind, Web, Christ.”

The accusing turn of Web’s mouth flatlines into cold reproach, and a layer of ice drops down into his eyes as he stares at Joe with a quickly darkening expression. “You know what,” he says lowly, throwing his legs up onto the dock and standing quickly. “I’m not doing this with you anymore.”

He practically sputters as Web breezes past him down the dock, gaining ground as Joe can only gape after him. He regains himself, unwilling to let one more of their goddamn interactions with each other end with one of them just rolling over, and barks: “What the _fuck_ is your problem?”

Web halts midway down the dock, turning to look back at him with an infuriating expression like Joe is the stupidest bastard who ever walked the earth. The icy anger leaks from his face, replaced by full-blown hot rage, and he strides back to Joe with hard steps that honest to God actually send a spike of nervous energy straight through Joe’s spine. He stops in front of Joe rigidly, bending slightly so that Joe can see every angry flutter of his eyes. “What’s my problem, Joe?” he hisses quietly, directly into Joe’s space. “ _You’re_ my goddamn problem, are you _kidding_ me?”

It takes him a moment to bypass his own light shock at Web’s reaction in order to respond, which he does with a halfhearted scoff. “I’m _your_ problem?” he croaks. 

“ _Yes_ ,” Web grits from between his teeth, his hands coming up to the space between them like he wants nothing more than to take Joe and shake him. “I mean, what do you want from me?” he implores, a shred of true distress leaking into his eyes between the cracks of his frustration. “You spit in my face and tell me we were never friends, and then suddenly you just decide it would be nice to dangle everything you took away in my fucking face ever since?”

Web’s voice cracks slightly on his last word, and he straightens, bringing a hand to his face. Joe himself is frozen, cold. It’s everything he was afraid of in himself, everything he wanted to avoid being thrown right back at him. He feels a flush building over his neck and chest that has nothing to do with a sunburn, and thinks how stupid was he to think that he could just waltz in and out of this whatever-the-fuck-it-is with no consequences for either of them? 

Running his hand down his face, Web looks at him with inscrutable dark eyes, before shaking his head. “Joe, _you_ ended things. I was ready to stay away from you because you made it abundantly clear that that’s what you wanted, but _you_ won’t leave _me_ alone,” he concludes softly. “So what’s the answer here?”

Joe’s mouth is as dry as can be, lips parted in a Web-esque gape. He can’t say anything, there’s nothing he could refute, he knows he’s wrong- knew he was wrong from the first. And he should have known better than to try and cut all ties with Web because obviously he was never going to succeed.

He knows that now.

Web looks at him expectantly, a desperate glint to his eyes that just further deepened the flush spreading across Joe’s neck. “What do you want?” he asks softly, his face moving swiftly from residual anger to a stunningly pitying expression. “Do you know what you want?”

His mouth snaps shut. 

Whatever Web sees in his face is not enough, as his face shutters once again. “Make up your mind, Joe,” he mutters, turning once more and setting off down the dock without pause. 

Joe can only watch him go, throat stopped up with all the lost time between them.

A trickle of a familiar sensation begins: pain, shame, anger, run.

_Yeah, and what good does it fucking do you?_ He thought bitterly, turning his face to the water. _What good does it do to run when you can’t stay away?_

He’s made of stronger stuff than this- has seen things folks back home couldn’t create in a nightmare, has wrought unimaginable destruction on men he’s never seen, people he’ll never know, has stood along the greatest men of his generation, watched them fall.

And all of this just leaves him when he looks at _Webster_? David Webster, who talks like he doesn’t have two brain cells to rub together one minute and spouts Shakespeare at you the next? Who writes in a goddamn diary and gives his candy to sad-eyed children? Who somehow knows exactly the spot on Joe’s temple to kiss to get him to drop his shoulders, fall asleep, let him win?

It’s improbable. It’s infuriating. It’s fucking madness, is what it is.

He doesn’t know what he hates more in this moment: himself, or the fact that any anger he held for Web probably died the moment he sat on this very dock and let Web smile at him. 

“ _Fuck me_ ,” he spits down at himself, rubbing his hands over his heated face. _Sit right here_ , he things spitefully, _rub your nose in this goddamn mess you made, asshole._

Which he does, and his shoulders are going to fucking hurt tomorrow, but he probably deserves it. Deserves a lot of the shit that he gets handed, apparently.

He only lifts his gaze at the call of his name from a ways across the water, and sure enough there are the guys packed into two almost surely stolen boats making their way out to the center of the lake. But he doesn’t return the call, doesn’t even have the heart to wave back, when he catches sight of Web near the back of the second boat.

For his part, Web seems as embarrassed as Joe is, but maybe that’s the distance being kind to his face. Could be a trick of the light.

But perhaps not, as he can at least see that Web averts his gaze to somewhere on the other side of the lake. What he looks away from, however, seems to be on full display to Skinny, who rotates his eyes between Web and Joe with a weariness he can see from even a mile away in the dark. And it seems that he’s had about enough of whatever the fuck it is he sees hanging between them like a tripwire all the other guys keep stumbling over, and his lips curl.

Web moves slightly, a sort of half-stand, to retrieve something Ramirez is pointing to, and Skinny takes matters into his own hands, it appears. There’s no other explanation for his unlaced boot landing smack dab in the center of Web’s ass and kicking him swiftly and surely over the side of the boat. 

Well, shit. 

A laugh flies up from both boats, which continue on their way regardless of the ensuing splash and violent ripple Web’s body makes as he hits the water. He very nearly laughs himself, stopping it only at the realization that if anything this embarrassment is going to do nothing for Web’s shit mood, even if the way he proceeds to flail clumsily is ridiculous (not to mention endearing).

It starts funny, but after a few moments when Web doesn’t move to try and either catch up to the moving boat or start floating naturally he feels a trickle of apprehension. _Alright, Web,_ he thinks, standing impulsively as the faint noises of the other man struggling in the water reach him. _We get it, everything in life is hard for you, start swimming._

“What’s your problem?” he mutters. “C’mon.”

But Web keeps splashing, and the minute Joe sees his head dunk under before reappearing with no small level of strain he comes to the dawning realization that something is wrong. He comes to it about the same time as the guys do, apparently, as he can see the smile on Skinny’s face abruptly drop.

It only takes him catching sight of Web’s head going under once more before he’s launching himself off the dock and into the water.

Bless his California instincts, because it’s been a while since he’s been in the water but it floats back into his muscles like he never left the goddamn beach. The fact that he’s barely dressed and not weighed down by his boots probably significantly helps as he begins to furiously beat his way through waves almost the second he hits the surface, spitting as his face is assailed by frankly pretty disgusting tasting lake water. Ahead of him, Web is still attempting to stay afloat, but unlike Joe he’s still fully dressed and wearing his boots, which are likely flooding, so that weight is probably doing him no favors as he kicks and fights to keep his head up.

“ _Web!_ ” he calls, feeling almost as though in a dream where he’s going as fast as he can but is gaining no ground. “I’m coming, keep your head up!”

He can’t see Web’s face between the waves, just the mosaic of splashes and incessant beat of the rippling water before him, but he hears clear as day the coughing, desperate: “ _Joe!_ ”

Everything narrows down to a point: his body cutting itself through the water to reach Web, and nothing else on earth exists. Not the war falling down around their ears, not the guys yelling from their far-away boats, not even time exists or maybe had ever existed.

All that mattered was all of a sudden caught up in his arms below the surface of the water, hands clutching at Joe’s as they wrapped around him, the both of them surging up and back to the light.

He’s not even that out of breath, but he gasps at the air on the surface like he’d been the one almost drowning in the damn lake, adrenaline pulling at his veins in a way he hasn’t felt in a good chunk of time here in Austria. Web’s head knocks against his as it tips back, sucking in enormous gulps of air that make Joe’s chest hurt just to listen to them, and he tightens his hold on Web’s chest even as he knows it’s probably uncomfortable.

“I got you,” he breathes near Web’s ear. “I got you, keep kicking.”

“Joe,” Web gasps hoarsely, head swiveling uselessly to try and meet Joe’s eyes. 

“Relax,” Joe coughed, lake water still trapped in his throat. “Just keep kicking, you’re alright.”

Web’s head comes to rest back onto Joe’s shoulder, which works well enough as Joe starts kicking his way back the way he came with much less urgency, helped along by the other man’s half-hearted attempts at kicking, which Joe finds it in him to appreciate because even he can feel the weight of Web’s watered down boots now.

“Joe! _Joe!_ ” he hears called from the boat. 

“Fuck off,” he manages to hiss, and that at least draws a strange wet choke to emerge from Web’s throat, almost a laugh but with no bones to it. He wants to tell Web to fuck off too, but finds even the thought of saying it distasteful here with Web practically boneless in his arms after almost sinking to the goddamn bottom of the lake. 

They reach the rocky shore in what seems like no time, and Joe handily beaches them both like sorry, washed-up trash, which is a pretty apt descriptor of how he feels in this moment. Letting his grip on Web go, allowing the other man to collapse gracelessly on his back beside him, gasping up at the sky, Joe allowed himself a moment to let what just happened sweep up over him with a strength so powerful that his hands actually shake as he looks down at them.

“Shit…” he murmurs breathily, almost wheezing as the apprehension begins to drain out of him, leaving only the lightly hollow feeling of unrealized fear. “Shit, shit.”

He doesn’t know what the fuck just happened.

“What the fuck?” he says, shaking his wet hair out of his face as he turns to look aside at Web, who lays on the rocky shore with his eyes closed, chest moving a bit more steadily now. “Web, what the fuck?”

Web’s eyes open, and settle into Joe’s with a clarity that is stunning and surprising in its solidity. His face is a little pale, even as color rests high on the apples of his cheeks, and Joe swallows heavily as drops of water cascade over the expanse of his cheekbone, but his eyes don’t waver, and his lips part.

“It’s me,” he says, voice on the lighter side of hoarse.

Joe frowns. “What?”

Blue eyes blink surely, and Web’s face falls into a beautiful resoluteness. “It’s me. I’m your best friend. I know you better than anyone else, alright? I win.”

His breath is caught up in his throat, his chest constricting before suddenly loosening, as though each of his ribs falls from his body and his heart floats free, flying clean through the air before landing in the palm of Web’s hand. 

“You sure about that?” he questions weakly, voice starting at a challenge and landing at a plea.

A droplet of water rolls over Web’s lips, and Joe’s eyes follow its path. “I couldn’t unknow you if I tried, Joe,” Web said, a half-smile spreading over his lips. “Of course I’m sure.”

And he can’t argue with that.

Before he knows what he’s doing, where he’s going, he’s pulling at Web’s sodden shirt until the other man is clumsily raised to his feet. For his part, Web keeps his mouth closed as he’s towed off of the rocky shore and back into the woods, far from the eyes of the guys on the lake. Joe doesn’t release his hold on him until they’re successfully shrouded in the nearby trees, when he’s able to turn and bodily launch himself at Web, who was clearly not expecting it and proceeds to collapse back against a tree.

Not that either of them care.

Joe kisses Web with an intensity he’s never truly felt before, all fire passing from his lips and into Web’s, who shudders and opens for him as if the past few weeks haven’t mattered to him at all. His tongue massages the other man’s almost gently before winding his arms around Web’s neck and further deepening their embrace, feeling strong arms move up to clasp him in turn. They separate with a wet sound he might normally have grimaced at, but instead just coaxes him into another smacking kiss that they trade between each other's mouths for a long, long moment.

Web gasps as Joe’s mouth leaves his once more, shivering as his cheeks are kissed, then his eyelids, then his neck. “I’m sorry, Lieb, I’m so sorry -”

“No, I’m sorry,” Joe rebuffs hoarsely, pressing a hard kiss against the side of Web’s neck. “I’m sorry I said that -”

“I’m sorry I hurt you,” Web said, turning his own head and kissing the crown of Joe’s head. “I never meant -”

“I shouldn’t have pushed you away, I was wrong -”

“I’m so -”

Their lips meet again, drawing a sharp near-whimper from Web, and Joe sweeps his tongue gently around the other man’s mouth before withdrawing to lay a lingering, chaste kiss against Web’s lips. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, you’re sorry,” he concludes, before letting a punch-drunk smile break over his face. “Beautiful.”

“What’s -”

Joe yanked Web into another kiss, his nose mashing up against the other man’s face momentarily before they settled back in against each other. One of Joe’s legs stepped itself between the slight spread of Web’s against the ground, the other coming up to wind haphazardly around Web’s leg. Groaning at the press of their bodies, Joe felt a flush building on the back of his neck; the combination of relief, of adrenaline, of pure glee coursed through his veins like cheap whisky, burning him all the way down. 

One of Web’s hands slid down the narrow expanse of Joe’s back to brazenly palm at his ass, pulling him in until they were all but plastered together, and Joe could feel the weight of the other man’s cock against him, hardening surely as they gently rocked together for a few moments. He breathed a hot sigh against Web’s neck, pulling at the dark locks his hand still wound tight in, getting a short half-whimper half-mewl for his trouble. 

“I want to,” Web said softly.

Joe pulled back from the heat of their embrace, looking back into Web’s heavy-lidded eyes as they continued to move lazily against each other. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You want me?”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Web groaned at a rough thrust of Joe’s hips.

Smiling, Joe leaned in to nip at the skin of Web’s neck, earning another high gasp, before pulling back to leer teasingly at the other man. “You better take me, then, Webster.”

For a moment Web gazes at him like he not only hung the moon but spit-shined it, too. But after a moment his expression becomes something much more interesting, as he smiles like the cat that got the canary, and suddenly regains his footing against the mossy ground, and handily hoists Joe into his arms like he weighs nothing. 

Cursing, Joe rapidly wraps his now nearly dangling legs around Web’s hips, hands digging into the other man’s shoulder blades as Web finds his footing and grips Joe’s ass even tighter. Joe looks into Web’s face, trying to discern any discomfort with holding his weight, and finds nothing but a kind of playful happiness that he’s never seen cross Web’s face before, and the force of it travels directly from the other man’s body and into his own as he dips his head to lick into Web’s mouth again. 

He’s never been lifted before, never been carried, not as an adult anyway, and the exhilaration of it is shooting straight through his chest. He feels like a dame in a Western about to be tossed over Web’s saddle, like one of those statues in a museum of people clasping and crawling over each other in gravity defying miracles, like Web is taking him up and he can take Web up in return.

Fuck, it’s good. 

Joe’s pulling his lips from Web’s, before they can get too caught up once again, before he even knows he is. “C’mon,” he breathes roughly against Web’s lips.

Without further preamble, Web takes one slightly uneasy step forward, balancing Joe’s weight in his arms, and then another. Joe stifles a laugh against the other man’s neck as the next few steps occur in quick succession, before feeling his back hit the bark of a tree and scrape his wet shirt up and away from his waist as together they slid to the forest floor. 

“Fuck…” Joe gasped as Web deftly worked at his fly, one hand disappearing into Joe’s pants to grasp at his cock before freeing it. Web looks down at his exposed cock with a distinctly starved expression, before pushing half-heartedly at Joe’s knees where they still cradled his hips.

“Down, put them down,” he ordered breathlessly.

Joe complied immediately, one hand moving to work restlessly over himself as Web moved to sit astride his now open lap and begin pulling open his own pants. “Shit, Web,” he muttered nonsensically, drawing the other man’s heated gaze back to his own before Web leaned in to lick a hot stripe up his neck, settling against his ear to nibble and suck on the lobe, causing Joe’s head to thud back against the trunk of the tree they had landed against.

How the fuck did he think he was going to be able to live without this?

He slipped his free hand around to cup Web’s ass, urging the other man even closer, eyes shooting down to get his first good glimpse of Web’s dick in what felt like ages. A similarly starved look is likely spreading over his own face now, taking in the sight of the other man’s reddened cock, jutting out towards Joe’s own as strong as anything.

There’s a lot he wants to do with that, he thinks, mind going in a thousand different directions.

But Web seems to have better control over the situation, as he slowly grinds himself down onto Joe’s lap, a low moan rumbling through his throat. He feels Web’s hand nudge up against his own on his dick, and he freely releases his own grasp and lets Web take hold of both of them, stroking up and down against each other. Joe shudders in a harsh breath, feeling the heat of Web’s own breath gusting against his skin as the other man’s thighs spread over his and his ass flexes under Joe’s hands, a sharp _‘ah!’_ stinging against his ear as he thrusts his hips up into Web’s grip. 

It’s a little dry for Joe’s taste though, and gently he takes hold of Web’s wrist so he can bring the other man’s pale hand up to his face and lick a few wet, long stripes over his palm. At the dumbstruck look on Web’s flushed, beautiful face Joe grins and takes one finger in his mouth, sucking briefly at the tip before planting a hard kiss against Web’s knuckles and pushing his hand back down. 

With the added wetness Web’s grip becomes that much tighter, his strokes coming a bit faster, and Joe thrusts up into the rhythm harder, causing Web to gasp sharply and fist his free hand into the shoulder of Joe’s wrinkled shirt. 

“Lieb…” Web manages to shiver, and Joe can’t help but cup the back of his neck and coax him down into a harsh, messy kiss. “Oh _God_.”

Joe groaned against him, his hips moving sharply as Web twists his palm over the heads of their cocks. “Fuck, yeah, Web, go on,” he choked.

Web goes stiff in his arms, his mouth open wide as an inarticulate cry escapes him, come splattering over his hand. The sight, the time, and the sounds of Web’s pleasure prove to be too much as Joe shoves his hips up into Web’s still-tight hold on him once more, and comes with a bone-rattling moan, his head dropping to rest on Web’s still shuddering shoulder. 

He breathes against the damp fabric for a few blissful moments, relishing in the feeling of Web placing a series of dry kisses against his hair beside his ear. Another dumbstruck smile fights to break over his face, and only his own wanton relief keeps it at bay.

They’re back. They’re fucking _back_.

Joe turns his own head to nose gently at Web’s hair, planting a kiss against his temple before huffing a small laugh. “I can’t believe you lifted me,” he said softly. 

Web looks back at him, a rosy glow still emanating from his skin like he got blessed by a goddamn angel. “I can’t believe you let me,” he admits, smiling softly.

It’s almost too soft, and he fights not to shrink back from it, wary enough that he might cut it with his sharp edges. “Yeah, well,” he fumbles, tugging at a tousled strand of hair on top of Web’s head. “Don’t get used to it, buddy.”

That only makes Web’s smile increase, and his dimples shine at Joe in the afternoon sunlight streaming through the overhanging trees. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Lieb.”

* * *

The night is somehow kinder, then. After giving the guys a good reaming about the boats (and handily avoiding the question of where they had disappeared to after he fished Web out of the lake), he had completed his rounds and found it in his heart to settle in for a game with the boys. They seemed to take it in stride, the strange comings and goings and ups and downs of Joe Liebgott, and made room for him like he had never been away to begin with. 

He’s gearing up for his third round of poker when he feels it: heat. A burning stripe on the back of his neck, and he can’t help but smile at the knowledge that somewhere in the room Web is watching him. 

And he stills feels it when another couple of rounds later, he tosses down his cards and declares that he’s heading to bed. The only time he doesn’t feel it is the space of a few minutes, where he stands alone in the room he once shared with Chuck, whose bunk stands aloof and cold against the wall, and waits for a knock on the door. 

Which comes, undeniably. 

Joe can’t even keep the grin off his face when he pulls the door open to reveal Web, standing before him looking almost sheepish at his own eagerness only to laugh unrepentantly when Joe takes hold of his collar and pulls him inside. 

He smiles and smiles and smiles some more, until they’re both crammed into Joe’s narrow bunk, Web curling himself up into a ball that can’t possibly be comfortable just to rest his head on the plane of Joe’s chest.

He’s nearly asleep when he hears Web mumble against him, his voice vibrating along his skin. “I’m glad you read the book.”

Joe sucks in a semi-deep breath. “The book?”

“ _A Tree Grows in Brooklyn._ ”

He hums gently, frowning. “Yeah, of course I read it.”

Web seems to nod. “I knew you would like it. Knew it when I left it that you would.”

All of a sudden he’s awake again, blinking down towards Web in the darkness of the room. “You left the book?” 

Web props himself up on one arm, looking back at Joe with what he can tell is a bemused expression. “Yeah, I did. Didn’t Chuck tell you?”

“Chuck?”

“He let me in,” Web blinked, a frown creasing his pale features.

Joe lets his head sink back into the pillow with the weight of the certainty that’s just been bestowed to him. He can’t help but laugh a self-deprecating pop of a laugh; either he and Web are the stupidest sons of bitches to walk the earth, Easy happens to invest themselves in this whatever-the-fuck-it-is just by coincidence, or they’re all some different shades of knowing and unknowing at once. 

Beautiful.

“Joe?” Web questions softly, face open and amused at Joe’s own amusement.

“Nothin’. Nothin’,” he shakes his head, one hand easing Web back down to rest against his warmed skin. “I’m glad you did.”

Appeased, Web sighs happily against him. “We should do it again, you know. You can be very insightful when you want to be, I’d be interested to hear what you have to say about other books. It’s good to do that, you know? Books are more real. More real sometimes than other -”

Joe yawns hugely, and Web taps his chest. “Are you listening to me?” he asks, a flicker of flimsy annoyance running through his words, betraying a smile.

“Say whatever you want, Web,” Joe chuckled. “I’m not listening.”

But he was. And he did, long into the night and beyond.

**Author's Note:**

> that's that on that!
> 
> lend your thoughts and have the happiest of all seasons~


End file.
